


Red-Blooded Citizens of Earth

by Ark



Category: Burn Notice
Genre: F/M, M/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-18
Updated: 2011-05-18
Packaged: 2017-10-19 13:41:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/201487
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ark/pseuds/Ark
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“We are not calling Sam,” Michael said.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Red-Blooded Citizens of Earth

It was just after 3am, and Fiona was feeling frisky.

It was after frequent body-shots and several arguments that chiefly concerned their non-relationship relationship, and it was going exactly nowhere, even despite the occasional throwing-of-stuff.

And it was getting to be too late and Michael was quite drunk, too.

Not that he indulged, much, really. But Fiona had insisted, been insistent. Not that he was really _drunk_ drunk.

Not as drunk as Fiona, at least. She'd had considerably more body-shots, but then again, her Irish blood allowed for it.

Even after half a bottle of the best hard stuff Michael knew she could drive a straight line and pull a straighter trigger-ready hand.

But Fiona was inebriated regardless, which Michael could read in the way she moved her wrists and the way her ankles crossed.

She was drunk, at least, in the happier way Fiona could be drunk, outrageous instead of simply dangerous. It was happier that way all around, Michael had learned.

Frisky-tipsy Fiona he knew how to counter and handle. Already she was reaching to refresh her drink instead of reloading her gun, which was just great.

Fiona took a long, slow sip. “It's silly that we're arguing, Michael.”

He could have sighed unadulterated relief and nearly did. “That's what I was saying, Fi.”

She shook her head and shook a little smile his way. “No, no. I realize that we're going about this wrong. We should call Sam.”

Michael sat on the bed facing Fiona in the chair. “Sorry. We should what?”

“Yes. Sam.” Fiona perked up, her smile at him coy. “We're sitting here arguing about having sex when we could be calling an authority on the matter. Don't you think, Michael?”

She leaned forward excitedly. “It's rather a cunning plan.”

“We are not calling Sam,” Michael said.

Fiona pouted, but was not soon put off. “You're only sour that you didn't think of it first yourself,” she said, pointedly, warming further to the idea. “I'm calling Sam.”

“We are not calling--”

She had Michael's cell phone too quickly in hand to be believed, and Michael had spent a lifetime learning about acts of subterfuge.

Punched in his quick-dial and had Sam on the line while she wrestled Michael's protests down against the bed.

Fiona's fierce fingers in his mouth forced silence, and for the length of the call Michael lay prone, with only his foot kicking a little in protest.

He heard sleepy Sam over static say, “Mike?” and Fiona said, “Sam, it's Fiona. We need you at the loft. It's an emergency,” in one of her breathiest voices. Then she hung up.

Michael swore, and wrestled her over and down onto the mattress, too late.

“Son of a bitch, Fi,” he said into the arc of her swan-like neck. If it hadn't been quite so swan-like he would have let himself be angrier. “That wasn't okay.”

She smiled playfully at him, and shook out her hair. “Maybe not. But all's fair. And look at you -- all hot and bothered. Should we have called Sam in earlier, then?”

Michael kissed her quiet, because of the way she looked all lovely and lovingly tormented and tormenting and tantalizing caught beneath him; then he let her go. “We don't cry wolf like that. Emergencies are emergencies.”

“This is emergent,” Fiona responded, and pushed him aside.

She got up, took a prolonged drink from her glass and set about preparing a third. “This is a brilliant scheme. I really wonder at myself that I hadn't thought of it before. I must be slipping.”

Michael watched her mix up an elaborate, potently Irish, nearly toxic cocktail, then said, “Fiona Glenanne. Come back to bed. You've had too much and you're talking nonsense.”

Instead of picking the fight he laid, Fiona merely turned an amused glance. “I'm perfectly fine, thank you, Michael, and seeing quite clearly. Your concern is charming.” She mixed lemon and lime together in the third tumbler. Every inch of her radiated mischief. “We'll just see about your headache, won't we, my dearest?”

Michael sat up, and nearly went to take the drink away, but Fiona's eyes fixed him with a warning. She had the mint out and she _would_ muddle it despite any of Michael's attempts to the contrary.

“Now if I know our Sam,” she said, with a little sing-song, “That would be his car coming around the bend, and--”

Uncannily, Sam was soon at the door; but both had known he would be. At first he knocked, then banged harder, then stopped in astonishment when Fiona opened it.

She wore a night dress that could hardly be classified a dress; even lingerie was sturdier. Wisps of silvery gray fabric clung mightily to her breasts.

“Hello, Sam,” she said, posing against the doorjamb like something out of a B-movie. And it was all so patently over-the-top that behind and above her on the bed Michael found himself doubling over with laughter and hoped Sam would forgive him.

Sam at odd hours in the middle of the night could be forgiven his flared temper. His ire had been up, his fear and fortitude, his blood racing, his gun in his waistband, ready to confront any and every catastrophe awaiting at the loft.

Fiona in a barely-there negligee smiling wickedly had not been amongst Sam's considerations, at least not that night. Michael all but giggling from the peanut gallery did not help matters.

She went about settling him: “Sam Axe! Just the man.”

Michael stole a look in order to watch Sam's frayed nerves start to smooth instinctively under compliment. There was a glimmer in Fiona's eyes and the neat white teeth she flashed him. “Oh, Sam, I'm so glad you've come. We needed you, see.”

Half-relieved, half-pissed-off, half-defying mathematics and simply confused, Sam let himself be pulled into the loft. The door banged shut behind them, and Fiona threw the bolt for dramatic measure.

On the bed Michael was still laughing. He had snuck a sip from the cup intended for Sam before Fiona whisked it away.

Sam somehow looked past Fiona and her barely-covered assets and said with remarkable forbearance, “Mike, you want to tell me what the hell is going on?”

Michael stopped laughing but he couldn't explain and Fiona was talking anyway, so. “We needed a sexpert,” she explained, for them both.

“A sexpert,” from Sam.

“Why, yes! I read that in a magazine while I was staked out the other day. Anyway, Sam, I thought we needed you; and Michael quite agreed. What do you think?”

That hung in the air for a good long while. Then Sam, bless him, heaved a longer breath around all of the myriad implications. “Is that the case, Mike?”

Even though he was being directly addressed, aimed to up over Fiona's head, Michael sat still and found he couldn't speak.

His eyes were on Sam and Fiona from his perch above them. But he thought he might have nodded.

Fiona glowed triumphant. “It was practically Michael's idea. Come _on_ , Sam.” She tugged him further along the hallway.

Neither man had seen her look so happy, so at-ease, in many months.

It was instinctively attractive, the slow way Fiona was strolling with Sam, letting her hips speak while opaque gray lace did much to continue the conversation.

When Sam was standing by the kitchen counter with Michael watching even closer Fiona beamed.

“Won't you have a drink?”

Sam would, of course.

Michael watched his friend swallow down too much of it in too-quick gulps. Sam was flat-out ignoring his silent messages and coded hand-signals to go easy.

Michael knew Sam saw him -- impossible for Sam not to when they'd traded similar surreptitious signs in war zones -- so Michael knew Sam drank most of Fiona's fairy concoction down fast on purpose.

Fiona waited until their eyes were back on her, and then she said, “Sam, Michael and I have been drinking, and arguing about having sex, and drinking, and then it occurred to me that you'd be able to help. Don't you think you could be exceedingly helpful, Sam?”

Sam looked at her and not at Michael and then at Michael and then at his shoes and then at his glass and said, softly, “Fi, Mike, I should probably go.”

Fiona laughed. It had a merry ring; Michael would always give the Irish that.

She took a pull of Sam's drink from his hand before pressing it back. “Men! I swear. And they call us the weaker sex. Both of you've gone as pale as virgin ghosts.”

Her accents went up as her spirits did, and Michael and Sam exchanged astonished virgin-ghost looks before she continued.

“Sam,” Fiona said, smiling broadly, her brilliant eyes brilliant, taking a different tack, “Do you find me attractive?”

That was unfair. Yet Sam answered gamely and honestly enough. “I'm a red-blooded citizen of Earth, Fiona Glenanne.”

Fiona, delighted, took that address as leave to slip free of her flimsy cover. The silky fabric pooled at her feet, and she stood naked before them both, all exquisite angles and inviting curves revealed.

Her posture and bearing were proud, her small, high breasts promising, the tilt of her head maddeningly seductive, and when she wet her lips both men started forward.

Michael nearly stood up, caught himself just in time.

Fiona and Sam were poised beneath him like sharks after blood.

When Fiona wet her lips, Sam glanced once at Michael for permission and then moved in.

To watch Fiona and Sam together was like observing a master-class.

When you're a spy, you look for further instruction and improvement wherever you can, and if Michael's hands had not been clenched tight enough to threaten circulation he would have taken notes and drawn diagrams.

Both were good, too good, at what they did and what they knew and what they liked. Sex was a specialty each wielded with confident bravado.

Their tactics were different, their training somewhat at odds, but Fiona and Sam were adept and enthusiastic with their bodies in a way Michael could mimic for a job but wonder at in real life.

The space of time where Fiona and Sam sought and seized one another and grappled as a matched pair should have been ridiculous, odd and wrong to him, had it not been so goddamned bizarrely captivating.

Not to mention clothes-ripping, teeth-tonguing, moan-groaning, nails-out, balls-out, spine-tinglingly arousing.

So Michael didn't mention it.

Sam now had Fiona swept up and laid flat on the counter, and he held her effortlessly down while his mouth did things to her breasts quite beyond the comprehension of the average man.

The far-from-average woman liked it too, because Fiona's nipples were as pink and flushed as Michael had ever seen them, and whatever the hell Sam was doing made her slim hips twitch.

Involuntarily, Michael knew, since Fiona would never give away so much at first.

Sam was good with his mouth, Michael noted. Of course.

Fiona, still glowing with good humor ignited further by ready stimulation, then took Sam by surprise; she slipped free his grip and had him pressed against the near wall before Sam could even begin to fathom the loss of access to nipples.

She dug a hard-muscled thigh between Sam's legs, just pressure enough for pain and pleasure both. Michael knew the move.

Fiona split Sam's shirt in a shower of buttons (she was particularly fond of that maneuver), and yanked it down Sam's flexed biceps, the dark ink revealed under fabric, yanking his arms back and bearing his chest but using the colorful shirt-cuffs as impromptu restraints.

Sam's hands were trapped and pinned behind him against the paint. Michael knew that move, too.

But he liked watching Fiona perform it from afar and he liked the way Sam's broad shoulders fought her trickery almost like he really wanted to escape.

Sam could hardly really want to escape because once at her mercy Fiona's long graceful naked body slid tight into the juncture of Sam's space.

She teased sensuous promises with her breasts pressed close and her marvelous hips starting to find purchase and friction against Sam.

In all of it that Michael watched, better than any taped pornography, stranger and better, they hadn't kissed each other, not once, his best friend and his best girl.

Not on the lips, at least. And something told Michael that was the one move that had kept him still and merely watching, sweating lust and liquor, hard as all holy hell and disinclined to disclose it.

Palms nearly bloody from digging his fingernails in.

But Sam and Fiona looked like they were a dry-hump or two away now from actual full-on fucking.

Neither of them were kidding around; neither's well-known body language indicated in any language Michael knew that they wanted to just laugh, rather hysterically this time, like Michael did.

They were actually going to do it. Sam and Fi were going to do it.

The jealousy that flashed angry and red and also virulently green-eyed through Michael should have surprised him but didn't.

It was a confusing sort of jealousy, though, lacking a proper manual.

He didn't know if he was jealous of Sam daring to touch Fiona after a mere questioning blink in Michael's direction, or of Fiona daring to touch Sam because she felt like it and had a point to prove, or if it was because he was so fucking turned on he was on the verge of coming in his pants and it was his cock that was actually the real troublemaker here.

Mostly Michael couldn't believe that they were going to do it with him there watching them like a V.I.P. peep show ensconced overhead.

Michael using every page and binding in the spy-book not to gape and to properly conceal his relentless erection.

When a spy finds himself in a compromising position of a sexual nature, the best tactic was to -- oh, fuck it.

He realized then that they were going to do it _because_ he was watching.

Michael started up again, and this time he made it to his feet.

He got halfway down the banister, then gripped there for support. All of his blood was in his groin, and he felt profoundly counter-balanced.

The kitchen should have been declared a hazard zone.

Sam's head was back, his arms twisted back, and Fiona's lips were leaving brilliantly shaped blood-bruises blooming in a that zigzag pattern she sometimes liked to make.

In unison, they turned identical lust-crazed, smiling-eyed gazes on Michael.

In unison.

Michael didn't understand how they'd timed it, or how they could look like that at once, all blasé and blitzed, and he hated them both, totally, really was so not having this right now.

They were his team; they were a unit. In an uncertain situation, when tables turn, operatives were meant to take the closest exit immediately, to make one if necessary.

Get out while they could, while they were still alive. An ill-spent sixty seconds was the difference between getting a new assignment or getting a body bag.

In an uncertain situation, spies were by no means to investigate further without proper clearance first.

Fiona's slippery-smart hand eased down Sam's zipper and helped his hard cock free. Sam's cock was bigger than Michael and Fiona had once playfully conjectured. Bigger than his big hands on the pert circumference of Fiona's ass suggested.

Not like Michael hadn't seen it before, you know how it was in military locker rooms, showers, but he had never seen Sam aroused to pitch-point and past.

Fiona's long-fingered quick grip knew exactly how to handle Sam's situation.

She and Sam shared a throaty laugh that wasn't even meant for Michael. They had turned away dismissively when he failed to make it fully down the steps.

Sam groaned something about Fiona, still happily plastered to the wall, and Fiona responded with a high-pitched murmur, the Irish in the vowels betraying her excitement.

They were actually going to do it and ignore him and have sex on _his_ fucking wall with him spying on them like a wet-eared novice so painfully hard Michael swore he would seriously come to spite them both, damn them, on the next noise.

So of course they were silent after that except for sucking-sounds.

When a spy's dealing with newly-discovered rogue operatives, he had to be especially careful because he ran the risk of having his cover blown by those who have been privy to too much inside information.

At all times, whenever possible, a spy should never reveal that he was aware of the presence of double agents in his midst.

A piece of the banister tore free under Michael's hand. Sam and Fiona looked at him again.

Michael looked at the ex-banister, put it down. “Okay,” he said. “You can stop now.”

Fiona's gaze was guileless, even with Sam's hand cupped under one breast and her hair a raked-wild tangle.

“Oh, Michael,” she said, in Fiona's sex-voice, which was more flammable than even Fiona's C4-voice. “Hello. I had quite forgotten that you were here. Sam and I were just discussing the matter of sexperts. Do you think we both qualify? We believe that we do.”

“Fiona Glenanne,” Michael said, frighteningly low, an inadvertent warning.

He was surprised when both of them seemed to like that -- both of them -- both of them unsubtly responding to the dangerous lilt of the way he shaped a name. They liked him growling. He smiled his most effective smile, certain then that he could match them after all.

“Yeah, hey there, Mikey.” Sam had other ideas.

Sam had the fully-nude Fiona grinding up to a rhythm he matched, not shy at all about letting those now justifiably-large fingers range Fiona's proffered skin.

“What's shakin'?” Sam said.

That Fiona liked games Michael had long grown to accept; but to have Sam Axe, of all people, turning a faux-innocent face on Michael while he pitched hormonal home-runs was as yet entirely unacceptable.

He was going to have to punch Sam at least once in the face before this was through, which was unfortunate, and then maybe add to the other blossoming blood-marks Fiona had started, which was more fortunate. A strange thought, Michael thought, strangely tempting.

“Stop it now,” said Michael, lower.

In unarmed hand-to-hand combat between skilled combatants, having any foreknowledge of the enemy's weaknesses and blind-spots can be the precise distinction between life and death.

“You don't have to do this anymore. That's quite enough.”

Michael knew it would be difficult, excruciating, even, but he knew that he could move then and subdue both Fiona and Sam, Sam and Fiona, because he knew them and everything about the way they were like the back of his own hand.

Which meant, shit, too late, too late to retreat --

\-- that this was what they had wanted from him --

\-- that this was what they'd agreed silently and sneakily to seek after and bring him to all along.

Because they, too, would be well aware of the vulnerability of their position, which meant they had long since evaluated Michael's.

Michael took a step toward them with the counter between, as though ducking a line of fire.

“We should do what now?” Sam asked curiously, like they were talking about a new client.

“Why, Sam,” Fiona said, running lips down Sam's bold jaw-line, that impressive chin, then linking her arm chummily through his. They turned again to look at Michael like some kind of two-headed fantastic sex-beast.

“I do believe that Michael wants to be in the middle.”

Michael might have made a sound, but if he did he'll deny it. They were ignoring him anyway, on purpose, sort of.

“He doesn't have a headache after all,” observed Fiona to Sam.

“I think that's called a hard-on, technically speaking, Fi,” Sam replied, squinting a little too hard at Michael.

“Shall I take care of him,” Fiona wondered aloud, “Or do you think you should you go first, Sam?”

That was when Michael charged at the wall -- _his_ fucking wall, goddammit all and goddamn them all to hell.

That was how Michael ended up in a place he'd never anticipated or maybe he had.

Fiona had. Sam had. So maybe.

That was how Michael ended up tumbled into bed by two masters of the art, the two people most necessary to him in the world.

They took their time with him, when they got him.

They even drew out the revelation of his naked body, as though unwrapping a present.

As though unwrapping something new, like they had never seen him quite like this before.

Sam's fingers for the first time touching Michael in a different way, Sam's confident, unhesitant fingers. Sam's fingers slid the buttons through their tiny holes on Michael's shirt with painstaking care.

Sam, leaning carefully down, pressing a beginning kiss to Michael's mouth, when Fiona gently touched Sam's shoulder, then Michael's.

They kissed for a long while.

From behind Michael, Fiona was completing the removal of his dress shirt. She drew it loose.

Michael finally had to break free from kissing Sam to tug his undershirt up and over his head. That was when he turned to kiss Fiona.

She melted into him, and Sam's attention fell to his neck and bared chest, to the application of his teeth there.

They stripped off his pants as one, with practiced ease.

Sam confirmed it: “Easy-peasy,” he said.

Then he only spoke to Michael's cock for a space.

Fiona in full triumph, alight and beautiful over Michael. He reached up to caress her lovely curves.

She didn't have to say it, so he did. “When you're right, you're right,” he said, and Fiona grinned winningly and bent down to take his mouth's attention and Sam hummed decided agreement, edging Michael toward the brink.

But letting him get off easy was not on the shared agenda. This they drew out, too.

First he and Sam took on Fiona together. The plan was easily and wordlessly communicated.

Sam re-employed the significant skills of his mouth between her legs, while Michael pinned down the writhing curves of Fiona's body and teased her nipples with just enough of the pressure she liked best, the better to drive her mad.

He covered her mouth with his own at the exact interval of her moans, swallowing them down.

When she was more than ready Michael took her while Sam watched. Sam's hungry fascinated eyes on them drove them both to perfect their old well-known ancient rhythms.

It was never not an exciting ride with Fiona -- she had Michael flipped and pinned too before long in order to demonstrate the fact.

But this night held another element entirely, and she soon reached out to pull Sam back into the circle by his cock.

Both of them looked at Michael now before they did it, and though he didn't express it, they could see the nod in his eyes.

Sam buried himself deep inside Fiona with an appreciative exclamation when Michael thoughtfully moved aside.

Fiona, watching both of them, making noises for them both, let Sam show off his considerable acrobatics in this before rising to ride him, too.

Michael never knew where to focus first: at the slide of Sam's proud cock into Fiona, at the distinct shapes their faces made, at the sounds they groaned and ground out, familiar and not.

Then it was Sam who had drawn Michael back in, coaxing him down and putting an end to his watch.

Michael leaned in to kiss Sam the way he would have wanted to kiss Sam, given proper thought: combative, then yielding, with a lot of tongue.

The occasional warning bite for being far too cocky.

Pressing out the kiss long enough to test Sam's SEAL training, to see how long they could go without air.

Fiona's nails raked electric down Michael's spine, and she rode Sam with an enthusiasm that seemed increased by what she saw.

But they both broke loose before the final build, and pulled Michael up between them in a move he would have called choreographed if he could speak.

Only Fiona had his mouth, then, and Sam's big hands had settled to teasing Michael's cock and balls. He closed his eyes and could feel only pure sensation, nothing else, only deliciously bruising kisses and caresses, someone or another's fingers tracing secret messages into his skin.

They knew between them all of the spots that could arouse desire and Michael, between them, was the decided target.

He held out a long time before the bitten-off groan they sought, but not too long.

They made him ready together, Fiona and Sam. They worked exceedingly well as a team in that regard.

Sam was somehow deep within him at the last -- it seemed like that had taken a while, not that Michael was complaining -- but then Sam was large and hard and starting to move in Michael, with Fiona soothing them from above.

She looked at the two men while they learned it at quicksilver speed, shifting and adjusting and fitting themselves together, and then she kissed them both.

Sam made a noisy thankful statement, and Michael said nothing at all, thanking her again for knowing and for being right, silently this time.

Then Fiona was settling in with her back tight to his chest and her hips poised and primed for Michael. Her skilled eager hand reached back to stroke him fully hard again.

It was harder to know what to do with Sam pushing in slowly and pulling out attentively, prudently, fucking him with a gentleness better reserved for virgin ghosts and not quite what either he or Fiona needed.

He appreciated Sam's efforts, but he needed the decorated man who had circled like a shark after fresh blood rather than his sensitively-attuned friend who was suddenly full of the implications of delving into Michael sideways.

Michael knew what to do. “Sam,” he said, looking up and back, while Fiona slid achingly into place on his cock: hotwired heat, energy primed to go, wet readiness tightening around him. Fiona would not hold back for long.

“Sam,” Michael said again, steadily, like he was giving directives for a new mission, “You have to fuck me now for all of us. Fi has to feel it, too, which is the challenge currently at hand.”

“Isn't he considerate, Sam?” Fiona murmured.

Then Sam, instinctively obeying, thrust into Michael with movement enough for three or more of them besides, and Michael surprised them all by gasping and seeing it out fully against Fiona.

Her satisfied purr only spurred Sam to do that again, and again.

After that they found and settled into a pattern easier to find than it should have been. All of this was new, and should have been shocking, strange at least, only that Michael knew the two of them better than the back of his hand.

Between them, recipient and ridden, fucker and fuckee, bending all boundaries, Michael learned to give up some of his own well-learned restrictions.

Surely there could be no safer place in the universe than Fiona Glenanne covering him while Sam Axe had his back.

They made sure that when they came it was together.

Michael in Fiona, and Sam in Michael, and Sam and Michael's fingertips doing fine work in tandem on Fiona.

Sam's broad arms encompassed them both. They lay under arcane tattoos.

Pressed in the middle, Michael came with Fiona's tender earlobe in his teeth and Sam's grip spanning his upper thigh to hold close as he could. Sam quickened in him, frantic now, and Fiona let slip a cry and started to shake and clench tight on Michael as he came, tossing them all the more.

The final moments of it made them even more of a three-bodied well-oiled sweat-slicked machine, all known parts fitting and speeding together toward the same shared purpose.

They rode it out it in turns, as they took everything. Only the noises were new.

Afterward Michael lay breathing, unmoving. Sticky and past the state of content, not moving seemed a promising option. Sam's leg was heavy across Michael's, Sam's toes teasing the back of Fiona's knee.

Michael couldn't see her face, but he knew she was smiling. He could taste it in Fiona's voice when she said, “Mmm. Lovely. Sleep tight, lads,” and shut her eyes with every intention of doing the same herself.

“Fi,” said Sam, easily, as though he were not still half-hard in Michael and struggling to stay there, with Michael helping out, testing how long they could remain together -- “Next time, just _text_ “Emergency,” okay?”

“Next time,” Michael might have interjected, but wasn't sure.

He did say, loudly enough, “We don't cry wolf. Emergencies are--”

“An excellent notion.” Fiona yawned agreeably over Michael, and cuddled into his shoulder. “Next time I will. Thank you, Sam.”

“Anytime, Fi.”

Michael wanted to say, _And what am I, chopped liver?_ but he had no desire to sound like his mother at that particular moment in time.

And it had been too good to argue with. And they kept him still closely entwined with little space relinquished.

And then they said, together -- impossible that they could have timed it -- must have had hand-signals, or something -- Fiona and Sam said, “Goodnight, Michael,” like they had been transported to an easier and more innocent idea of rest from a bedtime tale.

“Goodnight, moon,” Michael answered comfortably. “Goodnight kitten, and goodnight mitten.”

“Which is which?” Sam asked, only half awake. Fiona issued a pronouncedly awake snore.

Michael saw, as they settled in against him, eyes closing, then his own eyes closing, that this was a more effective way to fall asleep than any storybooks they had once heard.


End file.
